Here Comes the Cold
by Youarethelightoftheworld
Summary: John used to believe in so many things.
1. December Part 1

John stumbles out of his bedroom wrapped in a warm blanket and wearing a pair of wool socks. He tiptoes down the stairs, tongue between his teeth as he carefully avoids the spots that creak. His effort is likely unnecessary, but if Sherlock is sleeping, the last thing he wants to do is disturb him.

He makes it to the fireplace, and Sherlock is nowhere in sight. The cold has become unbearable; so sharp and biting that John has summoned the energy to crawl out of his welcoming bed and start a fire.

John doesn't know how long he sits there, his mind wandering as his body leans into the warmth of the flames. He glances out the window into the darkness, heart leaping at the sight of the snow drifting from the sky. In the thick, peaceful silence of the night, he allows himself one indulgent moment of nostalgia. The snow, the twinkling lights – they remind him of times spent circled around a fire with a family that was once whole and strong. Of a father with a kind face, not yet made unrecognizable by addiction, and a mother whose eyes sparkled in the candlelight. He remembers the innocence that once shone brightly on his young face, but that has long since been left behind.

John used to believe in so many things.

His eyes drift towards the door of Sherlock's bedroom, and it is as if Sherlock has been waiting for his cue. He emerges, dressing gown askew, and folds himself onto the floor at John's feet. They sit, wrapped in comfortable silence, and stare into the fire.

John suppresses the urge to run his fingers through the inky black hair tickling his knee. He reminds himself that he is not alone.


	2. December Part 2

As December passes them by, John musters up as much Christmas spirit as he can and begins to decorate the flat. Sherlock helps him put up a tree and they spend most of their evenings curled up by the fire, their faces lit only by the Christmas lights hung on the mantle.

Tonight, John stands by the window and looks down upon the busy streets, full of people bundled up and rushing to finish their shopping. Sherlock comes up behind him, says, "What's the matter?" and smooths a hand over his shoulder. John doesn't dare move a muscle and wonders what gave him away. Most likely, the sadness that has been growing within him is written all over his face.

When he doesn't respond, Sherlock's arms curl around his waist and John leans back, relaxing against his chest without a second thought. They have found themselves in similarly intimate positions many times over the last few weeks, and although John knows he should put a stop to it, he cannot summon the strength to move away.

After all, he thinks, it's Christmas, and no one wants to be alone at Christmastime.

Surely, Sherlock will go back to his usual self after the holidays are over.

* * *

John pulls his Christmas jumper over his hand and reaches up to smooth his hair. He is dreading the day ahead, in which he must show his face at Harry's for at least a couple of hours.

Sherlock looks up when he enters the kitchen. "That jumper is absolutely hideous, John! Dear god, remove it right now." Laughter bubbles up in John's throat, and he giggles at the look of horror on the detective's face.

"Sherlock, I can't. I was supposed to be at Harry's ten minutes ago. Besides, this is my best Christmas jumper! Listen, I'll see you tonight, alright? Have a good time at…well…say hello to Mycroft for me."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and listens for the sound of the door. When he hears the click, he leaps from his chair.

* * *

Sherlock does not go to Mycroft's. Instead, he drags Mrs. Hudson upstairs and proceeds to bark orders at her while trying to cook a meal and straighten up the flat all at once. When John returns home, Sherlock will be ready.

* * *

"You have to change your jumper before sitting down for dinner."

John looks up from the doorway and freezes with one arm still in his jacket.

The flat is warm and Sherlock's face is glowing in the candlelight. John tries to speak, but finds no words. Sherlock seems to understand, and he shrugs and smiles at John, his face open and vulnerable.

"It's Christmas. I thought you should have a proper family dinner."

John's face softens and he moves towards the table, stopping as he catches Sherlock's eye. He reaches down to the bottom of his jumper and pulls it over his head, never breaking their gaze.

"Is this t-shirt proper attire for our dinner?"

"It'll do," says Sherlock, with a gleam in his eye.

* * *

"My father left us on Christmas day."

Sherlock looks up, but John is staring into his mashed potatoes. Sherlock clears his throat and doesn't question the abrupt change in conversation.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," scoffs John. "Old enough to understand, but too young to know he'd never come back."

"Why did he leave?" Sherlock hushes so softly that John has to strain to hear him.

John furrows his eyebrows in concentration, and his eyes go unfocused. He shakes his head.

"I don't think I'll ever know the answer to that." He looks up, and Sherlock's eyes are full of something that John cannot begin to interpret.

"But I know he didn't love us enough to stay."

* * *

That night, just as he is drifting off to sleep, John hears his bedroom door opening and feels his bed shift under Sherlock's weight. He turns to face him in the darkness, and when he touches Sherlock's face, it is wet with tears.

John wants to ask him why. He wants to brush the tears away with soft kisses. He wants to make it better.

Instead, he lets his tears fall, too.

Sherlock moves closer, until their foreheads are touching. Under the blankets, in the darkness, Sherlock whispers:

"Your heart is broken."

John nods.

A hand strokes his cheek, and John closes his eyes, shuddering at the gentle touch.

"I'll love you enough to stay, John."

John falls asleep with one inexorable thought in his mind:

For how long?


	3. December Part 3

John falls even deeper into a mood.

He spends entire mornings in front of the fire listening to the thump-thump-thump of Sherlock's footprints through the flat, the thump-thump-thump of the sleet on the roof, the thump-thump-thump of his heart. He spends entire afternoons thinking about the why of it all; why has this gloominess overtaken him, seemingly out of nowhere, and why has he succumbed to it so willingly? Why has nothing, not even Sherlock's tears, pulled him out of it?

He spends his evenings thinking about Sherlock.

Sherlock, who has been so uncharacteristically patient, and has not even mentioned the night and the tears, which desperately need mentioning. Sherlock, whose eyes sweep anxiously over John's face, trying to read some unspoken answer in shadows and lines.

The answer arrives in the mail the next day.

* * *

Sherlock moves quietly, as if afraid that a sudden movement might frighten his friend away.

"John. Our presence at a social gathering has been requested."

"A social gathering?"

"A…party."

Something like amusement shifts behind John's eyes at the note of obvious disdain in Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock's heart leaps at the sight.

"Lestrade. He has invited us to a New Year's Eve celebration, and I believe we should attend."

"You want to go to a party?"

"Well," sniffs Sherlock, "Yes. I enjoy company in small doses. But I shall not participate in the countdown to midnight, John!"

"Oh, certainly not."

Sherlock looks into John's eyes and is sure that he is being mocked.

He must remember to thank Lestrade.


	4. January Part 1

Sherlock and John spent most of the evening drinking copious amounts of champagne, avoiding Anderson, and pretending not to notice each other's not-so-surreptitious glances at the clock as it inched closer to midnight. John's mood had improved significantly after eating some food, and Sherlock began to wonder if John had been right about the importance of dining.

At 11:57, John's face lit up.

"Oh! I almost forgot! Wait here, I'll be right back."

Sherlock watched John dash off towards the coatroom and glanced at the clock one more time. What could John possibly need to do at a time like this?

At 20 seconds to midnight, John still hadn't returned, and people started counting down. Sherlock glanced around the room frantically.

**20, 19, 18!**

John dashed into the room, carrying a bag.

**17, 16, 15!**

"John, what on earth-"

**14, 13, 12!**

He yanked something out of the bag, shoving it over his head -

**11, 10, 9!**

Became hopelessly tangled in the fabric –

**8, 7, 6!**

And finally took a step back, displaying a new black jumper adorned with actual sequins and decorative- were those party hats stitched into the fabric?!

"I figured you wouldn't let me out of the house if you saw me wearing this, so I thought I'd surprise you instead. What do you think?" said John, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly.

**5, 4, 3!**

"John," Sherlock croaked, "that is the most hideous, ridiculous, HORRENDOUS jumper I have ever -"

John was in stitches from laughing so hard.

**2!**

Sherlock had never loved him more.

**1! Happy New Year! **

Sherlock pressed him against the wall and kissed him like he meant it.


	5. January Part 2

They giggled the entire way home.

"Did you see Anderson's face?" gasped John, wiping tears from his eyes and pushing open the door to their flat.

Sherlock burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Oh, John, I assure you that everyone at the party supported our public display of affection. They were simply caught off guard by the sight of your appalling jumper!"

"Hey now, buying this jumper was the best decision I've ever made! You're just jealous that I can pull it off!"

"Mmmmm," hummed Sherlock, raising one eyebrow. "Well, that is true. You do in fact look ravishing."

And just like that, they were done laughing.

* * *

"God, Sherlock-"

The feel of Sherlock's body pressing against him derailed John's words. His eyes snapped open as he searched for Sherlock's, but the detective was busy leaving a trail of light kisses along his stomach. When had his shirt come off? He rested a hand in Sherlock's wild hair, rubbed his thumb in absentminded circles, and tried to keep his body from quivering.

"What do you want, John?" muttered Sherlock, breathing in John's scent.

"I - I don't…"

"Tell me..." Sherlock growled.

"Jesus. I want – come here." John clutched at any bit of Sherlock he could reach, dragging him upwards until his face was buried in his jet - black hair. "What are you doing to me, Sher – fuck-"

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to the space just behind John's ear, moving down to suck gently on his neck.

"Ah, John, you're gorgeous…is this where you want me?" whispered Sherlock, his lips against John's ear as his hand trailed down to his waistband, stroking ever so lightly at the sparse hair there.

"Sherlock, ungh, yes…" whined John, his breathing becoming heavy and frantic.

Sherlock slipped his hand under the waistband of John's pants and trailed one graceful finger over his length. "John – you have no idea, I've been – so worried – these last few days - fuck John, you're so hard…"

"Oh my god. Sherlock, please, please, look at me -" They locked eyes, and John took in a shaky breath as Sherlock wrapped one hand around him, stroking slowly. "You are the best – ah – the only – just seeing you laugh made me f-feel so much lighter-"

Sherlock's mouth curved into a mischievous, lop-sided grin as he removed his hand and shifted upward to press their hips together. "Is that so? Well then, by all means, continue to dress in those ridiculous jumpers. You may get another laugh out of me yet, especially if laughter leads to this," he drawled, circling his hips suggestively.

John gasped, laughter flickering across his face even as he moaned, deep and filthy. "Sherlock, god, are you…"

"Yes, John, you've got me so close and you haven't even touched me. The sounds you make -" John moaned incoherently and lurched forward, running his teeth along Sherlock's lower lip and sucking gently.

"Yesss," he murmured as he pressed their foreheads together and bucked his hips, "Come for me, now." He felt Sherlock shudder, pressing him into the bed, and the spark of John's own orgasm rushed through him. Sherlock collapsed onto him, bringing their lips together for a slow, lazy kiss.

It left them both trembling.

* * *

John was drifting off to sleep, his head resting on Sherlock's chest when he heard the low rumble of his voice.

"You haven't said it back."

"Hmm?" sighed John, shifting slightly.

"I told you that…that I love you. And I will love you for…I won't leave you, John."

John lifted his head slowly and gazed at Sherlock, trying in vain to hide the fear and hesitancy that he knew was all over his face.

"Oh," whispered Sherlock, cradling John's face in his hand and nodding slightly. "Just – just think about it. You can say it…in your own time."

"But quite quickly?" answered John, rubbing their noses together and raising an eyebrow slightly.

Sherlock smiled, and John drifted off to sleep to the sound of his quiet laughter.


	6. Years Ago

The first time John saw his mother cry, he was six years old.

John was sitting on the couch watching a show while she dusted the bookshelves, and the little duck on the telly had just discovered that he had lost his blankie. John nearly missed the sniffling coming from across the room as he glanced around for his own blankie and tucked it safely around his shoulders. When he looked up, his mother was leaning against the mantle and clutching a picture frame, tears streaming down her face.

"It's alright, mummy," said John wisely. "The ducky will find his blankie."

But his mum just cried harder.

* * *

For quite some time, John's childhood was made up of freshly baked cookies, bedtime stories, snowball fights, and scraped knees. His mother was beautiful, warm, and never cross with him, and his father was the strongest man he knew. On nights when he didn't have to work, Hamish Watson would sit at the kitchen table and teach John jokes, cheeks turning red with laughter. When his eyes grew heavy, John's father would lift him into his arms and carry him to bed.

John loved nothing more than to play in the sitting room while he mother and father made dinner in the kitchen, talking quietly and filling the house with delicious smells and a feeling of security. He would often sneak over to the door, peaking around it and watching as they moved around each other with ease. John thought that it looked almost like dancing.

Looking back, he wished he had never seen them so happy.

* * *

Two weeks after Harriet was born, Hamish stood in the doorway of her nursery and told John's mother that he hadn't had a job in two years.

That night, John saw his mother cry for the second time.

* * *

Hamish had done this once before. When John was six years old, his father had lost his job and kept it a secret until they no longer had enough money to pay the rent. Sarah Watson had forgiven her husband's cowardice and accepted the excuse that he had not wanted to let her down. He swore that he had thought the situation was under control and that he would find a new job before she even noticed what was wrong. What was the point in worrying and disappointing her?

The second time it happened, Sarah did not find it so easy to forgive.

At 11 years old, John spent most nights awake in bed listening to his parents discuss how they could possibly live off of the savings they had left, what John's father had been doing when he was meant to be at work, and, once, the possibility of sending Hamish to a psychiatrist. As the months went by, John's mother did her best to protect her children from the apparent truth that their once whole family was falling apart at the seams. John knew that his father was ashamed, and over time Hamish grew distant and angry as a result of the sheer hatred he had for himself. John would sit at his bedroom door and press his ear to the wall, listening as his father stumbled through the house, trying to be quiet even as he knocked over the liquor bottle he was reaching for in the darkness. There was no shouting, and he never raised a hand against any of them. But as the days passed, there was simply an absence of the man John knew.

The quiet decay of what once was.

Three days after his twelfth birthday, John lay under the covers and listened to the front door click shut.

In the morning, what had been left of his father was gone.


	7. January Part 3

John lay in bed two weeks after New Year's Eve and decided it was time to call in the big guns.

He threw on a jumper and dashed out the door.

* * *

"Well dear, I'm so glad you've dropped by for some tea!" said Mrs. Hudson, smiling warmly.

In spite of his mood, John couldn't help but grin back. Mrs. Hudson was more cunning than she looked, and he was certain that she knew the real reason behind his visit.

"Now, drink up, and tell me everything. I must admit, I knew something must be up when I heard Sherlock humming last week. It was only a matter of time before you came knocking. So, what is it this time? It must be something awful, if he's this happy!"

"He told me he loved me."

John thought he heard a pin drop in the distance.

"Oh, John!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, "I – well I hardly know what to say! That's wonderful, darling! But what could possibly be the matter with that?"

The words burst out of his mouth before he could hold them back. "Well, nothing, except for the tiny detail that I don't think I'm capable of falling in love!" He turned away, blushing madly, and hurried to explain the whole story.

When he had finished telling her all about his family and the feeling of terror that had been pounding through his veins ever since he'd felt Sherlock's lips against his, he took a large gulp of tea and covered his face with his hands.

A warm hand gripped his shoulder with surprising strength, and John looked up to see that Mrs. Hudson had moved closer. "John Watson. You are a wonderful man, and it breaks my heart to hear what you have been through. But you must remember that Sherlock is not your father. Certainly, you have been scarred by your experiences, but choosing to trust Sherlock with your heart is not a mistake. Would you like to know a secret, John?"

John glanced up, tears prickling his eyes and threatening to spill over as he nodded.

"Sherlock Holmes does not love easily. In fact, I have never once heard him say the word out loud…oh, it is written in the way he protects me, and even in the childish fights he picks with Mycroft. But for him to have spoken those words out loud to you, John...well, I think it means even more than you could possibly know. You could very well be the first person to have received those words from Sherlock. And dear – you know him better than anyone. You trust him with your friendship, with your life…why do you hesitate to trust him with your heart?"

John felt the tears escape his eyes and blushed even deeper. "I…I don't know, Mrs. Hudson. You're absolutely right. I do trust him with my life. He is a marvel…the most incredible man I have ever known. To think that he has chosen to love me, well…you're absolutely right. Thank you."

They spoke quietly for a few more minutes, and when John had finished his tea, he turned to leave. As he was walking out the door, he heard her calling softly after him.

"Your memories are a part of you, John. But don't let them turn you into stone."

He smiled gently and walked out of the flat, his head held high.

* * *

When he entered 221B, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in his note-taking.

John walked up behind him and placed a soft kiss at the top of his head, lingering long enough to feel the brush of Sherlock's dark curls on his cheek.

"Mmmm," hummed Sherlock, turning to glance at him. "What was that for?"

"No reason." said John, staring at Sherlock and sending a million messages through the gleam in his eyes.

Because you are my best friend. Because you saved my life, and you continue to save it every day. Because you are worth the risk. Because I do love you, and I promise to say it as soon as I can.

Sherock stared back, his eyes full of hope and wonder.


	8. In the End

In the end, he has known all along.

John sits in his chair and watches Sherlock play the violin. Sherlock's eyes are closed as if in concentration, but John knows that it is something close to bliss.

He cannot look away.

* * *

In the end, it is so obvious.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and finds that he cannot fall back asleep because Sherlock is not beside him.

"I just wanted to be near you," he whispers as he crawls into Sherlock's bed.

He is asleep before Sherlock can respond.

* * *

In the end, it is undeniable.

John finds that his body moves in relation to Sherlock's, yearns for his touch, and is drawn to him like a magnet.

When they make love for the second time, the words are pounding in his head.

* * *

In the end, it is still somewhat of a shock.

John has just left work, and when he thinks about Sherlock waiting for him at home and in the midst of some experiment, he is hit with a wave of pure joy.

It overtakes him, and the force of it stops him in his tracks.

He is nearly twenty minutes away from home.

He runs.

* * *

In the end, it is so simple.

He says the words, and Sherlock's smile is as bright as the sun.

* * *

In the end,

They are at the beginning.

And John isn't frightened at all.


	9. These Days

At first, John thinks he ought to save the words for only the most important of moments. After all, he decides, love should not be taken lightly.

This lasts for about five minutes.

* * *

John bursts through the door and glances around the flat, shouting, "Have you got it?"

"No, John. The large green object in the middle of the room is, in fact, a figment of your imagination."

"Git," says John, laughing gleefully and practically skipping over to the Christmas tree. "I love you."

"I know," smiles Sherlock. "Now, let's decorate this ridiculous display of Christmas cheer and be done with it."

"I've decided I will let you put the star on top!"

"Oh, joy."

* * *

These days, the words come easily and often, and their brilliance does not fade.

Sometimes, he says them carefully, with great intent and purpose. In other moments, they burst out of his mouth, as if they cannot be held back. And sometimes, he does not even realize he has said them until he sees the gleam in Sherlock's eyes.

He finds that it does not matter when or how the words are said. They are true. They are real.

They are everything.

* * *

"John," gasps Sherlock, wide-eyed and trembling as he comes apart at the seams.

"Oh my god…gorgeous, Sherlock. I love you so much."

Sherlock's chest heaves as he catches his breath and holds John close. "I love you, too. God, we should keep the mistletoe up all year long."

John laughs and nods his agreement, relaxing into Sherlock's embrace.

Without warning, Sherlock flips them over and pins John to the bed, fixing him with a mischievous stare.

"Your turn."

* * *

Every once and a while, it all comes crashing down on him. Truthfully, for John, the wound will probably never be completely healed.

But without fail, Sherlock is there.

At the sight of the first snowfall, John can feel the grief edging closer and closer. This time, though, he also feels Sherlock, taking his hand and leading him to the sofa. Pressing gently until he is on his back and covering him with a blanket. Brushing a soft kiss across his forehead.

"Shhh," Sherlock whispers, stroking his hair. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

He doesn't stop until morning.

* * *

These days, when John closes his eyes, he can see what his future holds.

Holidays filled with laughter and new traditions. A chaotic but comfortable home. The best sex he has ever had. Adventure, joy, friendship.

Sherlock.

The story of his life -

Rewritten, with love.


End file.
